Exploit of Death - Dell Shannon (25 page)

"And suppose you come home all changed around
like in your brain, what would I say to the man?—him finding maybe
you've forgot who you are at all."

Alison said briskly, "Don't fuss, Mairi. Nothing
like that's going to happen. But I don't know how long it might take,
and this Dr. Cargill's way out in Westwood. I'll be home as soon as I
can."

Mairi said gloomily, "And
I only hope it'll be with your brain in one piece,
achara
."

* * *

HACKETT GOT HOME late. It was starting to cool off
the last couple of days, had only gone to eighty today, and please
God they had seen nearly the last of this summer. The ridiculous huge
mongrel Laddie was chasing around the backyard with Mark and Sheila.
They all came running to greet him and Laddie nearly knocked him
over. He went into the kitchen and kissed Angel. "I suppose the
freeway was murder," she said.

"I stayed overtime to finish a report. Alison
went to be hypnotized this afternoon, did she tell you about it?"

"For heaven's sake, what for?"

"Try to trigger her
memory about that girl." Hackett yawned. "I am bushed. I
think I'll have a drink. But at least we've cleaned up those two
homicides."

* * *

HE AND GALEANO had gone over to the jail to talk to
Neil Pratt when it could be presumed that he was sobered up. Unless
they got anything definite out of him they couldn't hold him any
longer.

But Pratt was another stupid lout, which they could
have deduced from that clumsily faked suicide. He was surprised and
aggrieved that they'd seen through it. When they explained how they
knew, it passed straight over his head.

"I thought everybody'd think she did it
herself," he said naively. "It was the way I set it up to
look." After he had been seen by that sharp-eyed manager, who
would probably recognize him, and batted them on the head with some
weapon before turning on the gas—and leaving the bedroom window
wide open.

"Why did you want to set it up?" asked
Galeano.

"Goddamn it,"
said Pratt, still annoyed. "Everybody should've thought she'd
done it herself. Well, goddamn it, I couldn't afford to give her all
that money! That goddamn judge said a hundred and fifty a month and I
couldn't afford it no ways. I don't know why she had to have that
damn kid in the first place. I need all the money I make to live on.
Goddamn it, I still don't see how anybody knew she didn't do it
herself! "

* * *

MENDOZA WAS IN THE MIDST of a graphic dream. He
dreamed that Laurent Rambeau had found Grandfather for him and they
were questioning him in the first interrogation room down the hall at
the Robbery-Homicide office at Parker Center, which seemed quite
logical to the dreaming mind. Grandfather looked exactly like the
picture of Fagin in the illustrated Dickens Mendoza had read in high
school. He was small and hunched, with a scraggly white beard and
beady little crafty eyes. Rambeau was thundering at him, "You
villain, what have you done to the little Juliette?"

And Grandfather leered at them and said solemnly,
"You will never prove it. We have buried her in a filing case at
the main library." This struck Mendoza as the most fiendish
method of homicide he had ever heard of and he was recoiling from
Grandfather in loathing and disgust when he became aware that there
was some intrusive extraneous sound.

He swam up from the depths of sleep and heard the
telehone ringing. After a moment he was enough awake to sit and grope
for the switch on the bedside lamp. The phone ent on ringing. He
picked it up and answered it.

"Oh, Luis, thank goodness you're there, I
thought you were out, they've been ringing you for ages—"

"
Qué es esta?
What's wrong?—the twins, the baby—"

"Nothing's wrong, why should there be? I knew
you'd want to hear—"

"It's the middle of the night here,
cariña
,
and I was sound asleep."

Alison laughed. "Good Lord, I am sorry, Luis,
the time difference went right out of my mind—and I suppose Mairi
would say it's all the poking around. But listen, I saw this Dr.
Cargill, and he hypnotized me, he says I'm a pretty good subject, I
went under right away. And he had a tape going and he got it out of
me—what the Martin girl said that I couldn't remember. It was there
in my subconscious mind."

"
Maravilloso
.
And what was it?" He groped for cigarettes on the table.

"Well, it was just after I'd asked her if she
lived in Paris that I went to sleep. But my mind took in what she
said. She said she had lived in Paris for five years since she worked
for Mr. Fournier. But before that, they had always lived at Evreux
because her father was attached to the museum there. That was all I
came out with. But, Luis, it could help, couldn't it? If you can
trace her parents, there'll be other people—"

"It could help one hell of a lot,
mi
vida
, " said Mendoza. "It was a
brainstorm. Muchas gracias. Everything all right there?"

"The twins have discovered that first grade
isn't as much fun as they'd expected. That old Sister Grace is awful
strict. And El Señor caught a toad and was sick. Everything else is
fine."

"Muy Bien. Keep your
fingers crossed, querida. This might mean a big break."

* * *

"Evreux!" said Rambeau. "The museum!"
He smote himself on the forehead. "Ie Musée de l'Archeologie et
de l'Histoire Naturelle. And Maman and Papa died only six months ago.
Now, indeed we will march!
Allons!
"

He drove out of Paris at a rate to frighten Mendoza,
who didn't like being driven. It was not far out of the city, and
Rambeau seemed to know his way. He braked outside an old stone
building with several wings, bustled Mendoza in and demanded the
director. Within five minutes they were talking to an alert-looking
elderly man with a fringe of white hair, Professor Rigaud. "I
ask you to speak in English if it is possible, for the benefit of my
colleague."

Rigaud's English was hesitant, but adequate. Indeed
he had known Dr. André Martin and his wife, Dr. Martin had been with
the museum for nearly thirty years, he was a most distinguished
Egyptologist. It had been a great tragedy when they were killed by
the drunken motorist. Indeed he had met the daughter—a charming
girl and quite brilliant. He did not mingle a great deal in social
circles, and the Martins had been younger. Perhaps their closest
friends had been the Boyers, Edouard and Léonie Boyer. Dr. Boyer was
absent on a field trip in Egypt but he could direct them to the
house.

It was a pleasant little stone house with a walled
garden where a few roses still bloomed. Léonie Boyer was a pretty
woman still, though she was probably in the fifties, with delicately
tinted blond hair, skillful makeup, smart clothes. Rambeau was
magnificent with her.

"Madame, the reason for this I will recount to
you later," he said after introducing himself and Mendoza and
ascertaining that she spoke English. "I can only tell you that
you will be of inestimable aid to Juliette Martin, to my colleague,
and to myself if you will answer our questions freely."

"Of course, Inspector." She looked a little
bewildered, but she responded automatically to his gallantry. "Come
in and sit down. Ask whatever you please. As you hear, I speak
English very well. I used to speak it with Elise, Julie's mother, I
do miss her so very much," and her eyes were sad. "We were
dear friends, and I look on Julie as a niece, almost a daughter. I
have no children, you see."

"I'd like to ask you something about her, too,"
said Mendoza. "Had you known her since she came to France, Mrs.
Boyer?"

"Oh, yes. Since she and André were married. She
became Elise then. In America, her name was Elsie, such an ugly name.
Like thud, thud. But always she had an affinity for France and the
French language."

"Then you know about her father and about
Juliette's visit to him."

"Yes, indeed. I look forward to hearing about
that when Julie is home. Elise, it did not trouble her very much that
he was so angry about her marriage. He was a cold hard man, she
always said, and her mother had died when she was fifteen. There was
no real home for her there. But also he was jealous, you
comprehend—no man she wished to marry would have pleased him, for
she was his favorite and the only daughter."

"And then after all, and after all these years,
he wishes to be reconciled to his granddaughter," said Rambeau.

She said, ."I understood why Julie felt she
should write to him. There is such a thing as the family feeling. Of
course we did not have a proper address, there had been no
communication for thirty years—well, twenty-five—for Elise had
written him when Julie was born but never had a reply. All I could
tell Julie," she smiled, "it was a little joke between
Elise and me—her old home in America. It was all so different for
her here, the country—the people—a cosmopolitan surrounding. But
she had become very French. Ah, that curious address in America."
She pronounced it carefully. "Indian Canyon Road, Rural Route
Two, San Fernando. So very American. And Julie's letter sent on, he
is not there any longer, but he wrote to her. Yes, he was very
pleased to have her letter. He wrote that he had often wanted to get
in touch with Elise, but of course did not know where to write. He
is," she sighed, "very old and feels remorse, and he was
pleased to know about Julie. He asked her to send a snapshot, and of
course she looks very much like her mother. They had corresponded
since then. He sent Julie the money for the airplane fare."

"Ah," said Rambeau. "He has money,
then."

"Oh, no, I do not think so." She was
surprised. "It was a very poor place they lived when Elise was a
young girl."

"Do you know the name of Claire Ducasse?"

"Why, of course. She is Julie's closest friend.
They were at school together. They shared an apartment in Paris until
Claire was married a few months ago. Her husband has been transferred
to Bordeaux, he is in a wine merchant's office. And Julie had missed
her, but she said she would keep the apartment alone until she and
Paul are married in January."

"The fiancé, Paul—"

"Paul Goulart. He is a fine young man. A doctor
like his father, he is finishing out his term at, what is it in
English, internship at the Paris General Hospital, and then he will
go into practice with his father. He is such a handsome young man,
they are so much in love. I have been very happy for Julie."

"What," asked Mendoza, "is Elise's
father's name?"

"Oh, that is very American, too. Elias K.
Dobbs—more thud, thud," and she laughed.

"Juliette's first letter to him was sent on. To
where?" demanded Rambeau. "She agreed to visit him, he sent
her the money for the plane ticket, somewhere in or near Los
Angeles—where?"

She put her hand to her cheek. "I could not tell
you. I am sorry. Julie must have said the name, but I am not familiar
with American names and I do not remember. It was not important.
Julie has gone to see him—of the family feeling. The old man,
sentimental and sorry—it is only for a short time. Inspector, I
must ask you why you are asking me all these questions. I do not
understand."

Rambeau leaned forward and patted her hand. "Now,
you will be brave, madame. We must tell you that Juliette Martin is
dead. That is right, you weep for her. I can only say you have helped
to avenge her death."

But when they came back to the Renault, parked in the
quiet street, he was looking distracted. He stopped on the sidewalk
and said, "But why does that name ring a small bell in my head?
Paul Goulart, Paul Goulart. However, we now have the name of
Grandpére
."

"And like the ones I handed you—a common one.
But we have telephone directories, too," said Mendoza.

"So again,
allons
!
You will get there, my friend. You will find Grandpére."
Rambeau reached the key to the ignition and stopped. He sat frozen,
motionless for thirty seconds. And then he said very quietly, "
Sacrée
Mere
. I have just remembered. Paul Goulart."
He lit a cigarette and sat smoking silently, staring through the
windshield of the Renault.

"He was murdered," he said softly. "The
reports that pass across my desk, other men investigating other cases
than concern me—the names cross my mind and go. But that much I
remember. This Paul Goulart has been murdered."

He switched on the engine.
"We will go to the office and look up the report on him. Your
mystery—it gets to be stranger and deeper, my friend."

* * *

THEY TALKED to Dr. Jules Goulart briefly that
evening, in the parlor of his rather shabby comfortable old house in
a suburb north in the city. "I have nothing left," he said.
He was a leonine man with an aristocratic profile. "Paul was a
fine doctor, a son to take pride in—and his life is taken for no
reason. A burglar stealing what little he had—perhaps a drug
addict. He was to have taken my practice. And now you tell me
Juliette is dead, such a dear girl, the right wife for Paul."
After a silence, "If it is possible, I would like to have the
ring back. Paul gave it to her as an engagement ring. I had it made
for his mother when he was born. It is unique, a diamond and
sapphires."